


Seeds of Corruption

by BiJane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abaddon being evil, F/F, Flirting, Hate Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Psychological Torture, Somehow, Vessels, Well almost, and flirting at inappropriate moments, and rather awesome, but mostly evil, keeping it teen and up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiJane/pseuds/BiJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1884, a demon is killing angelic vessel after angelic vessel, limiting the influence angels have on Earth. Naomi tracks the demon's movement, to find one of her vessels is likely to be the next target. <br/>The demon, when Naomi arrives, seems interested in a bit more than fighting, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeds of Corruption

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I have revision to do, an urge to write something about Abaddon, and someone talking about Naomi in the background. Basically, a distinct lack of revision.   
> In Naomi's case, her vessel is the one we see in the show. Abaddon's is different by necessity.

1884\. Catherine Fletcher guiltily left the house, and bed, of one Mary Cain. That night, as many nights before, she made her way through darkened streets, to her church.

She probably should have hated herself. She’d read her Bible, and listened to sermons on immorality, and lust, and perversion. In her diary, she copied out a verse from Romans day by day.

_For this cause, God gave them up unto vile affections_ … She read it, she wrote it, every day.

Somehow, she just couldn’t stop. That night, as many nights before, she hesitated at the threshold of the church, as if afraid the building itself wouldn’t accept her.

Yet it did. Catherine Fletcher walked down the aisle, trying to push Mary Cain from her mind.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” she spoke, seating herself in the confessional booth.

“May God help you, child,” the priest spoke, then paused, and seemed to cough. A moment later, in a different tone, he spoke again: “Speak.”

And Catherine Fletcher did. She said all she could, everything she could remember and everything she thought.

She spoke of Mary Cain, though not by name, and her previous Confessions and attempts to stop, and repent. She spoke of how hard she’d tried to atone, and her previous penances; and failures. She spoke of how, sometimes it almost didn’t feel like sinning.

And slowly, she finished, tears silently streaming down her cheeks. Sometimes it felt as though hellfire was unavoidable.

A moment later, and she could almost feel the priest shake his head.

“Now, now,” he spoke. “That’s not good at all. I doubt God could forgive you for that.”

Catherine glanced up, sharply, staring intently at the near-opaque slats that separated her from the priest. That, she- she’d certainly thought along those lines, in her darkest moments. Still, she’d never expected-

“F-father?” she said, hesitant.

“No,” the priest continued, as if ignoring her. “I don’t think He could. You would need to perform quite a service for heaven to repent for your sins.”

“Anything, father,” she spoke, desperate.

“Really?” she heard movement. “Let’s talk properly. Face to face. This can’t be done through a wall.”

And so, Catherine Fletcher left the confessional booth, and sat on a pew. The priest sat beside her, his hand on hers, his eyes staring into her eyes.

“Child, do you know of our Lord’s angels?” the priest spoke. “Beings of light that serve us. They cannot interfere on Earth: can you imagine if they tried? Their holiness would burn anyone that saw them.”

Catherine listened, intent. Anything for forgiveness. Even if she didn’t understand the relevance of the priest’s speech, she’d do her best to find any meaning.

“They need vessels,” the priest spoke. “People to carry them: that way, they can hide who they really are, and serve heaven with ease. To do that, though, they need to find someone willing to give up control of their body to an angel. They can’t do anything, otherwise.”

“Am I-” Catherine said, her throat dry. She swallowed, and tried again: “Am I a… vessel?”

“In a way,” the priest looked at her, and smiled. “Do you consent? Angels need a yes before they take control.”

Catherine paused, just briefly.

It didn’t exactly sound enjoyable, to have her body used by another, or have her body controlled. Then again, hell would be worse. And they were angels; what harm would an angel do? Angels cared. They would care.

Anything for forgiveness. The words came back to her, almost like a mantra.

“Yes,” Catherine Fletcher said.

She trusted herself to meet the priest’s gaze, resolute. He smiled, further.

Then his eyes flashed back and, before Catherine could move, thick, vile black billowed from his mouth, reaching out to her: holding her in a parody of Mary’s embrace, and forced itself down her screaming throat.

The empty body of the priest slumped, death finally catching up with it: and in Catherine Fletcher’s body, Abaddon stood.

Now that was _fun_.

Sure, she didn’t need permission. That didn’t make it any less enjoyable; taking a devout who’d willingly become a vessel for angels, and claiming them as her own. The first few seconds when she felt their mind, and felt the horrified realization of what they’d consented to, were utterly exquisite.

For all Catherine knew, her yes could have been the only reason a demon rode around in her. Delightful.

There was screaming at the back of her mind. Well, this was an innocent soul. Anxious to obey every rule, as she was taught: follow every commandment, and keep clean of sin. And she’d succeeded, mostly.

The devout were always the best. With a little effort, she could crush their minds: she just chose not to. With the priest, she’d ridden him for a few years: after killing his family slowly, she’d taken him to some of the most deliciously depraved functions. Hail Mary’s whispered in the back of her mind had soon become pleading and begging.

Then he’d bored her. Time to move on: Catherine was the best choice.

She’d have a good time robbing her of the innocence she so cherished. It was easy to read through her body’s mind; all of Catherine’s fears, everything she dreaded: it all happened to be just the things Abaddon loved.

Perfect.

* * *

 

Abaddon walked the streets, and Catherine was screaming. Still.

For a few centuries, Abaddon had given herself a mission. Angels were trouble, no question; but most weren’t anywhere near Earth for a time. It was as good an opportunity as any: for them to be a problem, angels needed vessels, as she’d told Catherine.

Take that away from them, and the angels were limited. Very limited.

And so Abaddon had walked the continents, searching for, to begin with, the most potent Angel vessels. One bloodline she’d let go free, to later serve as a vessel for Lucifer, but there were still hundreds more. There had been thousands.

Catherine Fletcher wasn’t a vessel, by any means: or if she was, not for any class of angel that was a threat. Mary Cain, on the other hand…

Slaying that vessel by this body’s hands appealed to her. And of course, she could ensure the soul went to hell: no chance of a heavenly resurrection. She’d already done a good deal of damage to heaven’s supply of vessels.

Abaddon stood by Mary Cain’s house. A knock on the door: and she waited. All the while, the voice in her head shouted: instead of fearing, now it was demanding.

_Don’t. Don’t do this, please. Anything else. I mean it, anything. Not her, please not her._

How entertaining. When it had a chance, her vessel didn’t have a clue how to feel about Mary. Love warred with taught revulsion. Abaddon’s favourite combination: such fun to play with. Now, though, Catherine might have done anything to save her guilty lover.

Abaddon was invited in, and went to see Mary. The woman’s parents thought they were just close friends; how amusing. Abaddon looked forward to telling them the truth. The people of this time reacted well to scandals.

“Cath?” Mary said, opening her door, clearly confused. “I thought you’d-”

“I’ve been thinking,” Abaddon made sure to add just a touch of breathlessness; make her seem more human. “I don’t want to feel guilty any more. I don’t feel guilty, about anything.”

Mary smiled, and stepped back, silently inviting Catherine in.

“I’m glad,” Mary said, as Abaddon entered. “It hurt, seeing you so tormented.”

Abaddon smiled: and turned. Mary kissed her, relieved; she returned it, channelling some of her body’s passion, and savouring the sudden tide of guilt and sheer terror that came with it. They moved together, sideways. Hands moved, Abaddon’s ascending, cupping Mary’s cheek-

In one fluid motion, Abaddon broke the kiss, and pushed forward, pressing Mary down to the bed by her throat, applying just enough pressure to stop her crying out. The demon smiled, addicted to the feel, the rush.

A flicker of betrayal in Mary’s eyes: of confusion, bewilderment and, of course, intoxicating fear. Abaddon kissed her, again, delighting in the irony, feeling the air slowly drain from Mary’s body.

There was no need to be any rougher. As much as she enjoyed torture, the psychological kind was just as fun as playing around with needles and knives. She’d kept her eyes human, kept them normal; for all Mary knew, this was how Catherine truly felt. Eager to choke the life from her, and stare into her eyes as the life left them.

Abaddon watched, intent. Smiling with a kind of lust.

Mary felt the world get further and further away, felt everything start to fade to grey. Consciousness became harder, and harder to hold on to: her world was pain. The pressure on her neck and, far worse, how Catherine’s expression savaged her soul.

Almost willingly, she succumbed to darkness.

And in the darkness, far in the distance, was a flicker of light. White.

_Will you serve the angels?_

Mary could have cried. She’d told Catherine that God wouldn’t care; and here was heaven, to prove her right. She’d known, somehow, she’d always known.

_Yes_ , she would have shouted it if she’d had a voice yet. And the light filled her, and-

Something was new; wrong. The world stopped fading; became crisp again, the sight of Catherine above her painfully clear. Alive? She couldn’t be alive, could she? She’d seen heaven: touched it, felt it fill her.

She tried to lift her hand. Tried to struggle. Nothing happened.

And then her awareness of even that faded, as something else took over.

Abaddon noticed Mary’s eyes flash white. _Shit_. The light flared again, and the demon felt herself flung back along the room, crashing into a distant wall. Mary’s body stood up, with new strength, eyes alight; shadow-wings stretched out behind her.

An angel, then. This certainly made things trickier, if not impossible. Abaddon landed on her feet, straightening, ready to fight. That vessel wasn’t suited for an archangel; she had nothing to fear. Any other rank might be a pain, but shouldn’t prove strong enough to kill her.

The angel in Mary Cain was next to her before she could react: one hand lifted, around the demon’s throat, lifting her some way in the air. The other, above the demon’s forehead: a flash of white, holy energies forced forward, into Catherine’s body, winding around Abaddon, closing in-

She shrugged it off. Maybe not with ease, but she managed it; and while the angel still thought she was struggling, Abaddon lashed out, knocking the angel sprawling along the bed. Abaddon landed on her feet, smirking.

In her mind, Catherine was screaming again. Whether for Mary, or one of the angels she’d hoped to hold, Abaddon didn’t care.

“No luck, sorry,” Abaddon said, at last permitting her eyes to flash black. “I’d let you try again, but I’d much rather tear you to shreds.”

The angel pulled herself up, immaculate. The light in Mary’s eyes dimmed, though the angel was no less present. Watchful. To survive that, this couldn’t be an ordinary demon: had to be a Knight. Only one of them was left.

“Abaddon,” the angel spoke. The demon smiled.

“Nice to be recognized. And you are?”

“Naomi,” she spoke.

“Nice job, Naomi,” Abaddon said, still smiling, cocky. “You’re the first angel who’s actually caught up with me before I killed their vessel. Want a prize?”

“I’m with Intelligence,” Naomi said, almost ignoring the demon. “We’ve been tracking you for a while. You haven’t gone unnoticed.”

“I’d hope not,” a smirk. “Didn’t exactly catch up with me though, did you?”

“We could have,” Naomi said, simply. “It wasn’t hard to work out who you’d target. Some of the vessels were ones we needed. They’d proven… disagreeable. Our hope was you’d be able to convince them to say yes.”

Abaddon laughed.

“You tried to use me to threaten your vessels so you could take control?” the demon seemed more amused than irate. “Wow, that’s cold. I like you.”

“Filth.”

“The filthiest things are the most fun,” Abaddon was still smiling. “You should give it a try. That was good demon-type thinking.”

“I am far above you,” loathing entered Naomi’s voice, a distinct counterpoint to her otherwise serene expression. Almost the opposite of Abaddon; the demon’s face was a smile of sadism, while her voice chimed with laughter. “I have the blessing of God.”

“Really?” Abaddon said. Laughter stopped. “’My dad can beat up your dad’, you’re coming back to that? Is that seriously the best you can do?”

“No,” Naomi said.

And a moment later, the wall splintered to pieces as the angel leapt forward, unreal wings allowing her to soar. A wing-beat placed her behind Abaddon; the demon ducked, and elbowed backwards, familiar with angelic techniques.

Mary’s parents almost immediately appeared, drawn by the commotion. Abaddon glanced up, eyes turning black as a smile lit her face. The parents froze, taken aback.

Naomi landed, looking at them with their daughter’s body. “Humans have no place here,” she spoke.

Abaddon shut her eyes for a brief second, as Naomi revealed her true, angelic countenance for just a moment. While Abaddon could probably have survived the glare, that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

The demon opened her eyes to see the two falling back, eye sockets aflame as their bodies twitched for the last times. Smiling appreciatively, Abaddon leapt to the side, avoiding a blow from the angel.

“Nice one, birdie,” she said, not striking back, even though she had the chance. This was too fun.

Catherine still wailed in her head. The awful death of Mary’s parents, the possession of Mary herself… Far better than anything Abaddon could have planned.

“Naomi,” the angel said, again. Abaddon smiled.

“I like birdie,” a lunge; Abaddon ducked to the side, and pressed the flat of her palm against Naomi’s back: “Goes with the wings.”

It wasn’t easy to touch an angel’s wings; they were far from tangible. It was harder still to find any use for doing so. Certainly, they were sensitive, but it was usually hard to do any more than brush them. They fluttered through more dimensions than she could count.

Still, Abaddon could learn: her fingertips, wreathed in smoke, briefly felt the touch of ethereal feathers. The way Naomi jerked at the touch was easily worth the elbow to the face.

“Filth,” the angel said.

“And proud,” the demon smirked.

Their fight went on. In minutes, the house no longer stood. Minutes more, and everyone was fleeing the street, unable to comprehend what they saw, but able to tell it was dangerous.

Naomi flickered in and out of sight, wings carrying her from place to place without any need to cross the intervening space. It was hard to face an opponent you couldn’t see move; Abaddon managed. Angels were predictable. Bones were broken: Abaddon ignored her vessel’s pain.

“Please,” Abaddon said, hours later. “We both know this is useless. You can’t kill me, I can’t kill you. You’d need to summon an archangel, and by the time you do that I could smoke anywhere.”

Naomi slowed, standing still now, in front of the demon. Somehow, her clothes were unruffled.

“You’re not a fighter, are you?” Abaddon said. “Intelligence. That’s what you told me. Heavenly paper-pusher. How’s it feel to get your hands dirty?”

“All angels are warriors,” Naomi said. “All the more when it comes to demons.”

A moment of silence. The two regarded each other, each breathless. Not worn out, but needing to supply the strength of oxygen to their bodies. In a way, they didn’t need to fight. Naomi could flee with a beat of her wings: she had no other aim there. At least, nothing she could accomplish without an archangel. And Abbadon had given up on killing that vessel: not as easy with an angel pottering about in there.

Abaddon knew why she stayed: she enjoyed this. The exertion, the wails of her body’s previous owner… Positively seductive. Had to wonder why Naomi lingered though; it amused her to think the angel might feel the same. Stuck behind a desk all day, she wouldn’t have much opportunity for action, of any kind.

Abaddon let her hands fall, casual. “Tell you what, birdie,” she said. “Fancy a break? Don’t seem to be getting much done here. I love it, but there’s more fun to be had.”

“And do what?” Naomi said, pretty much as disbelieving as Abaddon expected. The tension didn’t leave the angel’s frame.

“I can think of a few things,” Abaddon let her tongue snake out, running across her lips. She raised her eyebrows in a fashion that was suggestive enough.

“You can’t be serious,” Naomi said, flatly. Abbadon laughed.

“Demon, birdie,” she said. “Can’t tell me you don’t enjoy a bit of fun, lover. `Sides, your vessel must be screaming for it. Mine is.”

“You’re filth,” Naomi said again. Abaddon smirked, all the wider.

“Love it when you talk dirty,” she said. “It’s that or keep on beating the crap out of each other, and getting nowhere until one of us flits off. Which would you rather?”

Abaddon stood, openly, hands to her sides; she made no effort to defend herself as slowly, Naomi approached.

It could have gone either way, to be fair. She knew enough to recognize an angel’s instinctive hate for all things demon: she also recognized a spark of lust. Of her seven sins, probably her favourite, or at least tied with wrath. Guess Naomi did have a similar enjoyment for action, when she could get it.

Still, Abaddon was prepared to fight, if it came to that. Naomi stepped closer, again, slowly.

And the angel kissed her. Far from gently, far from kindly, and very, very far from the normal angel/demon interactions. Abaddon thought she felt teeth. Delightful. Naomi’s hands ascended; one pressed against the small of her back, the other to wind in her vessel’s hair. Tight; she kept the demon pressed close against her.

A sound that might have been a moan. Abaddon smiled: corruption was always so fun. She lifted her hands also, one to a notably less appropriate place, while the other ran up Naomi’s back. The instant it brushed past the spot where, before, she’d touched the angel’s wings, Naomi opened her eyes.

An instant later, and the angel’s eyes lit up: and the shining white of angel-light poured from the vessel’s mouth, potent, holy energy drenching the demon within.

It might have been enough. The increased power of an archangel let them smite stronger demons: but this was more divine power than a normal smiting contained. This was herself, her essence.

White against the black of the demon’s true form. Grace drowning the graceless.

For maybe an instant, Abaddon felt a flicker of fear. Naomi’s hand stayed, gripping her head in place: keeping their lips together as she poured herself onto the demon. The antithesis of the dark hatred that made up the Knight.

Or at least, it should have been. Abaddon recognized something akin to herself, some seed of corruption sown either by her or by the angel’s previous sins. That, she clung on to, weathering the storm of light that coursed through her body.

It was one thing to see an angel: it was quite another to be engulfed by one.

Naomi stepped back. Abaddon stumbled forward, choking, still steaming from immersion in heavenly light. Then, quickly, she straightened. There was still a smirk on her face.

“You’re a good kisser, birdie,” she said, licking her lips, and meeting Naomi’s eyes.

The angel paused, for a moment. Not necessarily surprised, not quite disappointed.

“You should be ash,” Naomi spoke. There was less venom in her tone. Abaddon smiled, and shrugged.

At the back of her mind, Catherine was still dizzy. Exulting. It was a story Abaddon was so familiar with: the guilty love affair. Hungering for someone out of reach; a married man or woman, or if a priest, anyone: or, in Catherine’s mind and this era, another woman. Each flicker of happiness bringing with it all-consuming shame. Delectable.

Abaddon smiled at Naomi.

“Maybe your heart wasn’t in it,” she said. “Took you a while to remember what you were trying to do, huh?”

If angels were warriors, then Naomi must be glad. Abaddon was the only reason she’d had to leave her desk in however many centuries, when she’d threatened the bloodline that composed her vessels. The only one who’d made her feel like that. And if angels weren’t warriors, well, surely she’d have to enjoy play.

Naomi glared at her, expression filled with something other than loathing. Abaddon tensed, wondering if they’d end up fighting again.

Then Naomi simply rolled her eyes; there was the sound of wings, and Abaddon stood alone. Still, she smiled.

Well, well. It seemed angels weren’t entirely incorruptible after all. 


End file.
